


Shave and a Haircut

by notjustmom



Series: What if... [18]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:34:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 7,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24046711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: What if Sherlock is John's barber when he returns to London after Afghanistan?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: What if... [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/493408
Comments: 142
Kudos: 85





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smollsherl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smollsherl/gifts).



> This story came about from a discussion on twitter, the question was whether John would be brave enough to ask Sherlock for a haircut as the lockdown dragged on... my thought was that Sherlock would eventually huff off, returning with his hairstyler's kit and offer to do it for him, "For a case, John." So this is a bit different, as they meet when John returns from Afghanistan in need of a haircut and a shave...

John was in the midst of one of the worst weeks in months, when he realised he was almost late for his weekly appointment at his barber. It wasn't an appointment really, it was just the way he marked time. Time since his return, two years ago now, nearly to the day, from Germany, after an abrupt departure from Afghanistan. He had left London as a Captain, with a promising surgical career ahead of him, when -

"What the -?" He stopped short as he realised the door to the barber shop was locked, shades drawn, to all the world appearing to be closed.

"Dr Watson?" A tall posh man in his forties approached him. "Dr John H Watson?"

John stood up as straight as he could and almost wished for his stick again, just to have some sort of protection. "Yes. Do I know you?"

"No. But I believe you know my brother? Sherlock Holmes?"

He couldn't help but laugh. There was nothing in the haughty, severe features in the expensively - no, more than expensive, he was bespoke from hat to perfectly polished shoes that resembled the man he knew. "You have got to be kidding me. Seriously?"

The man sighed and handed John a business card.

_Mycroft Holmes_

No number, address or website appeared on it. Just a name.

"Shit."

"You have been getting your hair trimmed here every week for the last two years on Wednesdays at 2PM, ever since you were deactivated, yes?"

"Yes. I'm not sure I want to know how you know -" For the first time John looked up, and studied the barbershop properly. There were cameras on the corners of the building - not old, maybe two years old. As he watched, they swiveled and seemed to focus on him.

"How did you -"

"Very good, Dr Watson, you are beginning to see."

"I see nothing."

"That's not true. May I ask, your connection to my brother -"

"What about it?"

"Is it just as a man and his barber, which is one of the strongest relationships a man can have these days, or is it, if I may be so blunt, made of stronger stuff?"

"Where is he, is he-"

"He is fine. Well. He has been better, he did want me to extend an apology to you if you happened to show up today, and to offer you a ride to his domicile if you were agreeable."

"Domicile? Who says domicile?"

"Dr Watson."

John studied his face for a moment, then saw the tension in his hand that was tightly wrapped around the umbrella that he used for support. Stress. He's under stress, and he normally doesn't show - no, he can't show emotion.

He nodded and without another word, a black sedan appeared, and a young woman stepped out and opened the door for him. He had no idea why he settled into the seat at that moment, but in the back of his mind, he knew his life was about to become interesting again for the first time in years.


	2. After Afghanistan

After Afghanistan, there was a blur of Germany, then home. 

Home. The flat he had lived in before Afghanistan was still full of the things he'd had before. Before his life - the life he thought he was going to have had essentially ended, even as he had survived. He had thought one day, one day he would, what, exactly? What had he dreamed of before? A family? Or just a life of work, and the local, maybe he'd meet a woman, or a guy, one day, and his life would be -

Normal. 

Average? Even average seemed nearly impossible now.

He was taking a stroll - well, not exactly a stroll. A stroll implies he was relaxed, not in pain, not feeling as if everyone he passed looked at him like he was less - less than he had been, when he noticed a barber shop he didn't remember. Of course it had been four years since he'd been home, and he wasn't sure he even really remembered what shops were in his neighborhood before he had left for Afghanistan, since he was rarely home when it wasn't dark. He ran his hand over his face, he could use a shave, and he always felt better after a haircut, so he pushed open the door and limped into the shop, then nearly walked right out again.

"Have an appointment?" The most beautiful voice he'd ever heard asked him.

"Hmm?"

"Afghanistan."

"Uhm."

"Have a seat, it's quiet today."

"Are you sure?"

Sparkling green eyes narrowed at him, and he took a breath, as if he was trying to remember to be polite, and it was a strain on his resources. "Have a seat, please. Shave and a trim?"

John nodded as he leaned his stick against an empty chair, then froze as the barber - no barber he'd ever met looked like, well, he'd only seen photos of Michelangelo's David, but he could imagine someone like the man who helped him out of his jacket could have served as the model. Dark curls, the piercing green eyes - sharp angles leading to the fullest lips he had ever seen. "Hmm, thank you."

"Shoulder?"

John blinked at him.

He let out an impatient sigh. "You were in the medical corps. I can tell by your dog tags, the patch on your jacket. You are essential, and yet you are home, invalided. Horrible word, I think, to invalidate one seems rather harsh. Please, have a seat."

Somehow he knew he didn't want to talk, so he put on CD of some classical stuff, he should know it, it sounded familiar, violin and piano. He allowed himself to take a deep breath and slowly let it out again as the drape was placed over him, and he closed his eyes for the first time in a couple of days. When he opened them again, it was as if there was a different person sitting in the chair. He looked and felt at least five years younger. He had no idea what -

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Sorry?"

"My name, my card. No charge."

"I appreciate it, but I couldn't."

"It's on the house. I'm usually free at this time every Wednesday."

"John Watson."

"I'll see you next week, Dr. Watson."

"It's just John. I'm not -"

"John." He held out his hand and John hesitated for a moment, then took the offered hand and shook it, he couldn't remember the last time someone had shaken his hand.

"Dr. Watson."

John cleared his throat, then managed to mumbled out, "Sorry, what?"

"221 B Baker St. This is where my brother chooses to reside, just knock, his landlady, Mrs Hudson will answer, there are steps, I do apologise, though it appears you no longer use your stick."

"No. It's fine. Did he say what, I mean - I only know him -"

"Every Wednesday at 2 PM, for half an hour to three quarters of an hour, for two years? You are the closest thing my brother has to a friend, and right now, he needs a friend." The woman opened the door for him and he nodded his thanks, then straightened and walked up to the black door with the brass knocker for the first time, and into a new life.


	3. 221 B

"Yes?" An older woman with sharp, grey eyes opened the door and knew exactly who he was. "Dr. Watson. How lovely to finally meet you, maybe you can do something with him." She rolled her eyes at the stairs and sighed as they both heard a bang, then a crash. "He's fine when he's got a case on - but, he's worse than, well - a doctor is when he is incapacitated -"

"MRS Hudson!" 

"Give him this tray, will you, or - set it in that kitchen of his, just put it out of reach, that's the third mug today." She blew a single silver curl from her eyes and shrugged, as she placed the full tea tray, set for two into his hands. "Good luck."

"Erm, thank you?"

"Not to worry, his bark is worse than his bite, if you know what I mean, dear."

"Right." He nodded and watched her into her flat, then made his way up the seventeen steps. He pushed the door open with his foot and nearly dropped it when he found the owner of the booming voice on the couch, his left arm in a sling, and right foot in a boot. "Holy - what?"

"John. Oh. Hell. Would you believe a barbering accident? No. I wouldn't either, just put that, hmm - on the desk? Damn. I didn't think he'd actually -"

John carried the tray to the desk, then pulled a swivel chair over to the couch and dropped into it. "Your brother can be very persuasive."

"He worries."

"I wonder why." John mused, and tried to hold back a grin, but failed badly.

"I was chasing a suspect and misjudged - a couple more centimeters and I would've had her."

"Suspect?" 

Sherlock sighed and ruffled his hair before meeting John's eyes. John drew in a sharp breath when he saw the dark bruise under his eye and gash that had obviously taken more than a few stitches. "Did you never wonder why - the barber shop was a place I could use as look out - banks have been being robbed over the last few years, old fashioned safe crackers - good ones. Took me a little over two years to figure it out, and then, I blew it."

"They got away?"

"No. She was caught by one of Lestrade's, by Donovan," he grumbled under his breath. "I'll never hear the end of it - I was lucky she was there, though. Look. I - I was going to tell you, I just. I became accustomed to, I looked forward to our time every week. You didn't seem to mind, and I, hell -"

"So you are stuck here -"

"Six weeks if I behave myself."

"This isn't the first time."

"No, I - uhm. I know - I mean - I want to, hell, this hurts. Here it is. I trust you, and you, until today, seemed to well, like me, you kept showing up -"

"Spit it out, Holmes."

"I know you aren't getting the hours you want, and money is no -"

"You're hiring me to be a nursemaid."

"Yes, no. I don't know - I just know I'm going to lose my mind if I have to deal with Mrs Hudson dusting every hour - and moving is -"

"Hurts like hell, and you can only take paracetamol."

Sherlock's jaw dropped, then nodded.

"Your brother discovered - or rather, researched me when he noticed our 'connection' and he knows the building of flats that I've lived in for most of my life when I wasn't in Afghanistan was sold out from under me six months ago, I've been in a crummy bedsit since, the pension just covers it. He was too polite - no, too well-bred to say anything on our way over." He shook his head and looked down at his hands. "You will listen, and not throw any more mugs? Yeah?"

"I'm not a child," Sherlock pouted petulantly, then rolled his eyes and nodded. "I'll behave."

"Good. Fine." John paused and looked around the flat, rows of books and artifacts in glass cases lined the walls, there was no television, but there was a laptop, and pile upon pile of papers.

"My work."

"Which is, what exactly?"

"I'm a consulting detective - came up with it when I was a kid - like Lucy from Peanuts? With her little psychiatrist stand? I was eight, still haven't solved that first one yet. So those are some of my old cases, I was trying to write them up, but I don't - I'm not a good storyteller. People usually find me a bit machine like."

John heard something in Sherlock's voice that made him back around. "You don't know," he said with a bit of surprise.

"Know what?"

With a sigh, John knelt down and began picking up the pieces of broken mug from the floor, then answered, "That first day I walked into the shop, you saved my life that day."


	4. Home

John slowly stood up, carried the big pieces of the mug into the kitchen and binned them - he looked around the kitchen and wondered what exactly he was getting himself into, as he realized how little he knew about the man he'd spent so much time with the last couple of years.

"There's nothing toxic in there - at the moment," Sherlock called out, and John heard that nearly covered tremor in his voice. In all the time he had known him, he had never realized - he walked back into the front room and settled back into the chair. He studied the man who tried to meet his gaze, but looked away and studied his one good hand, before he glanced at him again. "I do think I would have told you at some point, that I wasn't quite what I seemed to be."

"But?"

"But, well, you saved me too. I don't normally - I try not to depend on people, I've learned they are as a species, rather unreliable, fickle, inconsistent, but you, you are cut from a different cloth. This case was my first one after some time away, and I thought it would be easy, and then I'd get asked back onto the good cases, but then it started to drag on, but I didn't mind once I realized you would be there, without fail. It kept me - you kept me from -"

"Falling back on old habits?" John suggested gently.

"Rather," Sherlock yawned and tried to get comfortable on the couch.

"Wouldn't you be more comfortable in bed?"

"Is that an offer Dr Watson?" Sherlock grinned back at him, then groaned as he tried to sit up taller.

John rolled his eyes at him, but replied quietly, "Ask me again when you are feeling better, hmm? Now, I think -" He stopped as he saw a light flash in Sherlock's eyes, then vanish. He cleared his voice then tried again. "I think I can manage helping you to your room, maybe tomorrow, I can return the favor, must drive you round the bend not to be able to wash your hair, been a couple days, hasn't it?"

Sherlock nodded, then allowed John to help him to his feet and they slowly made their way to Sherlock's room. After John had settled him carefully in the bed, adding pillows where they were needed, Sherlock asked shyly, "Will you mind, staying, just talk to me until I fall asleep? I understand if -"

"No, I don't mind," John answered, then dropped into the chair next to the bed and watched as Sherlock closed his eyes, even as he fought to stay awake. He wondered what to say that could be of interest to the man who seemed to know everything about him, when he realized it was more that Sherlock felt like he needed to give him a reason to stay, and he understood at that moment that he'd stay as long as Sherlock wanted him to. It startled him for a moment, but as Sherlock opened his eyes again, he settled back further in his chair, and began to tell him a story, a story he had started to write years ago, but had left unfinished, perhaps now he could find an ending for it.

He started at a sound, and realized he had fallen asleep at some point. Sherlock was still, sleeping peacefully, as if he hadn't really slept in days, and he probably hadn't. John got up quietly from his chair, then moved silently out of the room to see Mrs Hudson holding the tea tray in her hands.

"Oh, Dr Watson, apologies, I just thought I'd -" She paused and smiled at him. "You got him to sleep. I'm sure I've never believed in miracle workers but you just worked one, young man. He rarely sleeps when he's in one piece, and when he's banged up as he is now -"

"How often does he-"

"Not too often these days, it's been a while since DI Lestrade has let him on a crime scene -" She narrowed her eyes at him and nodded. "You know -"

"Yes."

"He's been clean for a couple of years now. That's mostly due to you, you know. He's brilliant, he is, but he doesn't think much of himself, what I mean is, he doesn't do what he should to take care of himself - he sees himself as little more than a brain, and any other maintenance is beneath him, but since he's known you, he's been trying to do better. I do hope, that you'll stay? I know it seems odd, this arrangement, but, he is a good man, Dr Watson, and I think you must think that to still be here, not many appreciate him, or see him as you do." She looked down at the cold tea and asked a bit too brightly as if knowing she'd said too much, "Can I bring you a fresh pot, and maybe a biscuit, or two? I have a nice dinner planned tonight, he won't eat much, as a rule, but -"

"I'd love a cuppa, Mrs H, and biscuits would be lovely, thank you." John smiled gently at her, then saw her out of the flat, went to check on Sherlock, and seeing he was still asleep, grabbed a book from a shelf and settled down to read until he heard Mrs Hudson return with tea, then leave again, quietly shutting the door behind her.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"Still here."

"Yeah, still here."

"Good, just wanted to be sure."


	5. Dinner

He blinked as a light was switched on next to him, he had fallen asleep again. No great surprise there. He couldn't honestly recall the last time he slept through the night. Sherlock was quietly studying him, and he wondered what he could honestly see in him, why he had kept showing up week after week - it had to be the case, he supposed, as he wasn't all that interesting. "How long have you been awake?"

"An hour or so," Sherlock answered easily. "I've spent more time with you than anyone else, outside of Mrs Hudson, obviously, over the last two years, and I haven't had the opportunity until now to really study you."

"I'm honestly not all that interesting."

"On the contrary." John waited for him to go on, but he stopped and bit his lip. "I need a bit of assistance -"

"The loo?"

"Please?"

John nodded, then helped him from the bed, and settling his arm around his waist, they slowly made their way through the connecting door. He turned away and closed the door, and minutes later, as he once again found himself considering what he was doing there, Sherlock was leaning against the door frame, watching him curiously. "Mrs Hudson."

"Hmm?"

"Dinner has arrived if I am not mistaken and I'm rarely mistaken. She's taken to making things that I can easily stab at, even though she knows the likelihood of me actually eating -"

John once again wrapped his arm around him, and more or less half-carried him to the front room, where Mrs Hudson had indeed left dinner for two, including a bottle of wine that had been decanted. Sherlock laughed as John helped arrange the pillows again for his ankle then settled on the chair across from him. "She has taken a liking to you or she's just appreciative that she doesn't have to try to nag at me to -"

"Eat?" John suggested mildly as he poured them each a small glass of wine, and turned his attention to dinner. Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, but picked up his plate and after glaring at it mercilessly, picked up his fork and began to eat, possibly simply as an experiment, but after a moment, John couldn't help but grin to himself as Sherlock realized he was in fact hungry.

"Yes. I am, in fact, human," Sherlock muttered as he placed his fork down on the plate and picked up his glass of wine and took a sip. "I don't - as a rule - not really a rule, I don't usually have company, for reasons that must be obvious to you, so I don't normally drink, however." He closed his eyes and sighed. "This is one of her best bottles. As I recall, she was saving it for an _occasion_." He put the glass down, then picked up his fork again, and glanced over at John. "I suppose it is. I've found the one person who can tolerate my presence, and -" he blinked at him then, and turned his focus to finishing his dinner. "Convince me that sleeping and eating aren't such intolerable activities without so much as a stern look or sharp word. Clever indeed."

"Oh. Dr Watson. I could've -" Mrs Hudson stared at the two empty plates in surprise, then smiled at him. "How did you manage it?"

"No managing was necessary, I think he rather enjoys having an audience."

"He is a bit lonely, I think, Dr Watson. Though he usually finds the company of others intrusive, from all appearances, he seems to find your presence less irritating than usual." John felt his face heat up, but after she handed him two servings of sticky toffee pudding, she went on, "I'm glad he has at least one friend, Dr Watson, I have found that life is hard enough without doing it all on one's own. I made that because if nothing else, he will always eat his pudding. Now scoot before he starts throwing things again."

John grinned at her, then remembered Sherlock's comment on the wine. "Oh, and the wine was appreciated."

She shook her head. "He doesn't forget anything, that mind of his is like a steel trap. I was saving it for a special day, and I figured, this day was as good as any other. Just be careful, that one up there is a bit of a lightweight."

John laughed. "Thought he might be. G'night, Mrs H."

"Doctor Watson." She saw the light sparkle in his dark eyes, and the small cautious smile as he left her flat, and she smiled to herself as she gave a thought to the workings of the universe for a brief moment, before giving up and turning on her evening story.


	6. Lestrade

John started at a sound and bolted upright, in a bed. 

Right. 

They had taken their time with the sticky toffee pudding, it had been a favorite when he was a child, and he couldn't help smiling as he finished the last bite.

"Grandmother, not your mother."

"Hmm?"

"It was your grandmother who made the pudding when you were a child."

"Yeah." He poured himself another glass of wine and drank half of it before setting it down carefully again. 

"How you are with Mrs Hudson, you loved your grandmother, respected her, learned from her - sorry. I'll stop."

John looked up at him, and nodded. "Yeah, I make a mean sticky toffee."

Sherlock smiled at him and tried to stifle a yawn. "Sorry, I don't usually drink. But today - today was a good day. Haven't had many of those lately. So, thank you, for today." He finished his glass of wine, placed it on the table and moved to stand.

"Wait. Let me -"

Sherlock studied him carefully for a long moment, and finally nodded at him. "I'm a bit too used to being on my own, like you." He sighed as John grinned at him, and said, "Yes, there is Mrs Hudson, but sometimes she can't hear me over her stories and music - not classical, or her constant hoovering. And there is more to being alone than being on one's own. In a room full of people is when I feel most alone." John got to his feet and helped him to stand, though they were a bit unsteady, eventually made it to his room. "As I said, a good day, John. See you in the morning." Sherlock said in way of dismissal as he limped into his room and closed the door.

"Damn." John muttered to himself, and sighed as he glanced at the plates and glasses, and the remaining glass of wine left in the decanter. 

Mrs Hudson appeared as if by magic, whisking away the plates, but leaving the wine behind. "Don't take him to heart, dear, he's just used to -"

"Being alone."

"Yes. But he already trusts you, and he doesn't trust many people."

"How do you know that he trusts me?" John asked as he poured the last of the wine into his glass.

"My dear, that's simple, you wouldn't still be here now, if he didn't. Now, do try to get some rest, your room is made up, it's small, but it's a good room, I think you'll find."

That was eight hours ago, and now there was someone banging on the door to the flat. He tossed on some clothes, somehow someone had known his size and likes... right, the brother, then slipped into his shoes, and made his way to the door feeling halfway human.

"Can I help you?" He asked, as he threw open the door to an older man, obviously a cop. "You must be Lestrade."

"I suppose I must be. Didn't know he had company, didn't know he had a friend, to be honest."

"John, John Watson."

"Name is Greg, he never remembers, doesn't matter, long as he works his magic for us. I just stopped by to see if he needed anything, I feel bad that he - he'll be okay, yeah?"

"Just needs time to heal, but I think if you have any cold cases stashed anywhere, that would help him the most."

Lestrade studied John a bit curiously for a moment, then seemed to arrive at a decision. "Yeah, he's not all that good without a puzzle, how d'ya know him? Not really my business, but I've known him a long time now and -"

"He was my barber for two years."

"Oh. Oh! Yer that John Watson. Damn, didn't think I'd get to meet you. Excellent. Right, I'll send over some cases, give me a couple hours to get a box together. Maybe we can get a pint when he's back on his feet. I've got to run, just - if he gets all quiet on you, don't take it personal, it's a thing he does, helps him focus, I guess. He's a good guy, just a bit rough on the edges, not great with people, but his heart's in the right place. Good to see he has a mate." Lestrade nodded to himself, then offered John his hand, which John took as some kind of approval and shook the offered hand, then watched as he nodded again, and left the flat, closing the door behind him.

"Met Lestrade, then?" Sherlock asked behind him, standing with the help of a crutch.

"Yeah. Seems to be a good man, wanted to see if you needed anything."

"I heard."

"I'm sure he didn't mean anything -" John began as he turned to see the look on his face.

"No, he's not the most clever man in London, that would be my brother, but he knows people, and he's known me longer than anyone else, other than my family, so it's a fair assessment." He carefully made his way to the couch and propped his ankle on the pillow, steepled his fingers together and closed his eyes. John shook his head, then walked into the kitchen and plugged in the kettle for tea, and realized he wasn't exhausted for the first time in months.

"Yooohooo, boys...."

John rolled his eyes and opened the door to Mrs. Hudson and a tray full of scones and a fresh pot of tea.


	7. Silence

Silence.

John had never quite appreciated that silence can have a depth or a mood to it, until that morning. He had experienced the silence of disapproval, heavy and dark; the silence that seemed to crackle the moment before an ambush, but this, a silence of focused concentration, was like breathing rarefied air. 

After he finished more than his share of the scones, and a mug of tea, he wandered over to the bookcase to find it mostly filled with ancient leather bound tomes, and oddities that no doubt Sherlock had acquired over time, or they had come with the flat, perhaps, but to his surprise, there was a collection of classic spy novels, Fleming and le Carré, and a bit of sci-fi. He found a childhood favorite, and glancing once at Sherlock, just to be sure he was still breathing, settled into the overstuffed armchair and read until he heard a thud at the door.

He yawned, rolled his shoulder, then got to his feet and walked to the door, and opening it a crack, found a woman, arms crossed, glaring back at him. "Yes?"

"Box of files for Holmes. DI asked me to bring them, ordered me to. I'm Donovan." He opened the door and walking through it, pulled it closed again. "How's he doing?"

John saw a mix of emotions on her face, and wondered at the history between her and Sherlock. From her stance, it probably wasn't good. "He's - I was going to say resting, but -"

"Yeah, I've seen him do that thing he does. Look, I'm not sure what your relationship is to him - friend I'm guessing, though he doesn't really have friends - anyway. Hmm. Thing is, I was there, I should've stopped him, but I wasn't fast enough. He's usually indestructible, gets away with stuff us mere mortals don't, but this time, he went the wrong way, and fell. Could've been worse, he got lucky, landed in a dumpster, on a mattress, but still. Nearly gave me a heart attack, I know he doesn't think I have one, a heart, I mean. Anyway. Files delivered."

"Thanks."

"Yeah. Sure. Good luck to it -" It seemed like there was more she wanted to say, but she closed her mouth, turned on her heel and without another word, flew down the stairs and out the door. John stared after her for a moment, then picked up the ancient file box and went back inside the flat, to find Sherlock had emerged from his meditation, or whatever he called it.

"Afternoon."

"Seems to be, yes. Thank you."

"For -?"

Sherlock watched as John placed the dusty box on the coffee table, then answered quietly, "For the gift of your silent companionship. It is rare, most people are uncomfortable with silence, but you understand, or at least you seem to, that silence isn't something that always needs to filled, it has its place. I needed some time to reorganize my thoughts, and I've never been able to do that with anyone else, it has always been quite a solitary undertaking until now. You are rather unique, John Watson."


	8. Question and Answer

John pulled the desk chair over next to the table, removed the lid of the file box and placed the first file in Sherlock's lap. Their eyes met and Sherlock nodded at him a bit curiously, then opened the old manila folder, and closed it again. He looked down at the file, then over at John again and cleared his throat. "I know you must have better things to do than babysit me, but I do appreciate your presence."

"I don't, actually." John bit his lip, then shook his head. "I mean, I want to be here."

"Why?"

"You asked for my help. For two years, once a week, you made my life bearable. You listened when I chose to speak, and let me be when I preferred silence. You are the first person to treat me with kindness."

"I was on a case, John, it was -"

"No, I know. But you were the one constant in my life that I could count on. It's a rare thing these days. So I am at your disposal, for as long as you want me to be here."

Sherlock blinked at him, then nodded again, opened the folder and began to mutter to himself. John sat back and watched as he flipped through the pages and after a moment or two dropped it back onto the table in disgust. "The butler did it."

"Seriously?"

Sherlock's eyes twinkled at him and for the first time John saw his lips curve up into an honest smile. "Seriously. Can you make a note of it?"

"Yeah, sure." He went to the desk, grabbed a pen, wrote a note on the folder and put it aside, then placed another file on his lap, and settling into the chair, listened as Sherlock grumbled about the general incompetence of photographers, and crime scene investigators. He squinted at one photograph for over an hour, then chuckled to himself. "Brilliant, John, just -" He looked over at John, who was grinning at him, and his breath caught. "What?" he asked quietly, as he fidgeted with the folder in his lap. 

"Wish I could see you at a crime scene, I bet you are something," John answered, then abruptly got to his feet and walked into the kitchen in search of tea.

When he returned with a mug in each hand a few minutes later, Sherlock hadn't moved a muscle. John placed the mug of tea where Sherlock could easily reach it, then sat down again, and sipped at his tea.

"John."

"Yeah."

"If I were to ask you to stay, longer, I mean - would you, hypothetically speaking, that is, want to stay here, with me?"

John put his mug down carefully, then picked up Sherlock's tea and placed it into his hand. "Yeah, hypothetically speaking, I would."

Sherlock took a sip of tea, closed his eyes and sighed. "Thank you, John."


	9. Returning the favour

John nearly lost track of time watching Sherlock grumble through the next few files, until he noticed how he would suck in a breath every once in a while, then blow it out again on a count of ten. He was hurting, but wouldn't say. He knew because he used to do the same thing, back when he was trying to do anything he could to get out of hospital. He quietly slipped into the kitchen and returned with a dose of paracetamol and a glass of juice.

"Here."

"I'm fine."

"Sherlock, just take it, it doesn't help if you try to pretend you're not in pain. I can see it in your face, hear it in your breathing. I know it doesn't help all that much, but it will take the edge off."

"Fine." He rolled his eyes, but held out his hand for the tablets which he popped into his mouth, then accepted the glass of juice with a nod of his head, and drank half of it.

"Finish it. Please?"

"Yes, doctor..." Sherlock answered, but finished the juice, then handed the glass back to John. "Happy now?"

"Deliriously so."

Another grin. Another file flipped through, and tossed aside. "Can I ask a favour?"

"Yeah."

"It's been a few days since I washed my hair, and it's about to drive me 'round the bend, do you think you could, I mean, if -"

"Yeah, I think I could do that," John replied, and smiled as he saw the relief in Sherlock's eyes. "Give me a minute, 'kay?"

Sherlock closed his eyes as he settled into the chair next to the tub, and sighed as he felt the water, then John's fingers as they threaded through the matted mess of curls. "John?"

"Is this okay? Too hot, too cold?"

"No, it's perfect." The shampoo was worked through slowly, rinsed, then conditioner - he wondered what John thought of his one vanity, at least when it came to his physical appearance, but then John's fingers were in his hair again, and he couldn't care less what John thought at the moment, as long as he kept doing exactly - he sighed as the conditioner was rinsed out and John helped him to sit up.

"Okay?" He felt himself nod, but didn't open his eyes as he heard the hair dryer and the fingers were back, and he understood why John had come back week after week, he couldn't remember the last time anyone had touched him with such tenderness.

"All done," John whispered and he opened his eyes, then reached out to touch John's arm. 

"Thank you."

"Anytime."

"No, truly -"

"Yeah, I know," John answered. "I know." He smiled gently at him, then helped him to his feet, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. They both froze, and John cleared his throat. "I've wanted to do that ever since the first time I walked into that barber shop, I nearly turned around and walked away, but I couldn't - I understand if -"

Sherlock shook his head and rested his hand on John's face, and swore as it trembled. "It's fine, John, it's all fine."


	10. An Interruption

"I'm hungry," John muttered, then nearly swore at his bad sense of timing, as Sherlock's hand dropped away as if he had been stung and he turned towards the doorway. "Take away. Must be something you like. Stop. Please?"

Sherlock stopped and turned back to look at him.

"Look. I am interested. Very interested. You must know that, you _do_ know that don't you? Interested in you. But -"

"But?" Sherlock asked quietly, and John could see the exhaustion in his eyes.

" _But,_ you are a bit bashed up, more than a bit, and ought to be resting, and I -"

Sherlock's eyes locked on his and he knew he was waiting for him to finish the thought.

"Right now, at the moment, I'm starving, and you need to eat something, even if it's a bowl of rice -"

"Dumplings."

"Hmm?"

Sherlock cleared his throat and spoke a bit louder, "I like those fried dumplings." John nodded and couldn't help from smiling. He was so out of practice, and yet it didn't seem to matter as he saw Sherlock's face flush pink before he closed his eyes and nearly lost his balance.

John wrapped his arm around Sherlock's waist, and they both breathed out a sigh of relief. "I've got you, I won't let you fall, I promise."

Sherlock blinked at him, but didn't say anything else until John had settled him back on the couch, and handed him more paracetamol and another glass of juice. "There's something I should say, but I'm not, as I already said, good at this kind of thing, and -"

John pulled out his phone and said gently, "All you need to tell me is how many orders of dumplings you can eat?"

"Three if you share them with me?"

"Three it is, then." Again, he felt his face do that smiling thing, and he cleared his throat and turned away to make the call before he did or said anything else that he would embarrass them both. No, he thought as he turned back to catch Sherlock watching him steadily, it wasn't a question of embarrassing either of them, it was whether or not he could deal with falling harder for the man who had been haunting his dreams for the last two years.

"Yeah, I need an order for 221 B Baker Street? How long will it be? An hour, yeah, I know, I know, it's your rush time." He gave the order, then ended the call, and his breath caught as he found himself studying Sherlock's lips which had crooked up into a smile; a sweet, unpracticed, but genuine smile. He dropped into the chair next to the couch, then taking his hand carefully, brushed a gentle kiss over his knuckles, cleared his throat again and whispered, "I am interested, Sherlock, very interested, I just want to be sure, I mean - I don't want to hurt you."

"I think you'll find, though it's hard to believe at the moment, that I am usually quite indestructible."

"Right."

"John. I don't want to hurt you either. So -"

"Yeah. As slow as you want."

"But not too slow."

John smiled up at him and shook his head. "We'll figure it out."

"Promise?"

"Yeah, I promise."


	11. Morning Light

"John, wake up. John, you need to open your eyes. You're safe, in London. You're at home, John, just breathe and look at me."

John shuddered as he felt tentative fingers in his hair, then slowly opened his eyes to find Sherlock sitting in the chair next to the couch where he had fallen asleep after dinner. "I'm sorry. I -"

"Can you tell me about it?"

"You must think -"

"I don't think anything, except that you need a cup of tea."

John blinked at him, then sat up and looked down at his hands, as his breathing returned to something close to normal. "That day - during the day, I keep replaying it in my head, the things I should have done differently, at night, it's just sand - nothing but sand and noise. It's -"

"Why you choose not to sleep as often as you should?" Sherlock suggested gently, then laid his good hand over John's and waited for him to look up.

"I didn't do enough," he whispered, then swore as his hand went into spasm.

"You did all you could do, and you made it home, and I, for one, am so very grateful you did. I'm going to put the kettle on." 

"Sherlock, I -"

He leaned in and stole his next words with an awkward, but sweet kiss, and sighed as John's hand settled into his hair and pulled him closer. He sat back after a moment to catch his breath and studied him as if seeing him for the first time all over again. "From the very first moment you walked into the shop and sat down in that chair, you changed me. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I decided that I would do my very best to one day be enough for you."

"Enough for me?" John whispered. "You are -"

"I'm rude, obnoxious -"

John placed a single finger on Sherlock's lips and shook his head. "Let me finish? You are the most brilliant, compassionate, and by far the most beautiful man I've ever met."

Sherlock blinked at him, unable to speak.

"You need to get some rest, let me help you to bed?"

Sherlock nodded, and finally finding his voice, added, "But only if you stay with me."

John stood and helped him to stand, then wrapped his arm around his waist and together made their way to Sherlock's room. John settled the blankets carefully around him, then sat on the edge on the bed and looked into his eyes before he cleared his throat. "I haven't slept with anyone, in any way, shape or form since Afghanistan, partly because of the nightmares, but also -" He began to unbutton his shirt, but Sherlock stopped him with a look and he nodded at him, then closed his eyes tightly until he heard Sherlock ask quietly, "May I?"

"I -"

"You're beautiful."

"No, I'm not.

"Open your eyes, John."

"Sherlock."

"Your scars do not define you, John. You are more than what happened to you, and you are beautiful." He pressed his lips against the worst of the damage, and pulled away as John froze. "I'm sorry."

"No. I want you to, it's just, no one has touched me, I didn't think anyone would want -"

"I do. I want every bit of you, one day. Tonight, though, will you hold me until I fall asleep?"

John looked into the ever-changing eyes and seeing the truth of his words, walked to the other side of the bed and slipped into the empty space and carefully curled around him. He marveled at how easily they seemed to fit together, as if two pieces of the same puzzle.

"Tell me a story, John?" John kissed his shoulder, and told him the story that his mother would tell him on nights when he couldn't sleep, of a prince who spent most of his life searching in vain for his one true love.

"Do you really believe in true love, John?" Sherlock asked with a yawn.

"I didn't, not until you. Not until tonight."

"How can you be sure?"

"I just am."

Sherlock snorted, but he offered no further argument, and was soon fast asleep.


End file.
